


The Vampire at Baker Street

by reveling_in_mayhem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, John Watson-Vampire Hunter, M/M, POV John Watson, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-07 21:55:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21224849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveling_in_mayhem/pseuds/reveling_in_mayhem
Summary: Vampires live among us everyday. They sit beside you on the tube, on the bus, at your favorite local diner. They sit beside you and they eat the same food as you. They are the woman you pull at the pub, the man you have drinks with after work. They’re your neighbors, your coworkers, your friends.Sometimes they’re your flatmate.I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back a bit, shall we?





	1. Chapter 1

The story I’m about to tell you is completely true. It’s important to get that out of the way now, as what I’m about to reveal is hard for most people to believe. Fact or fiction, truth or lies. My truth is both fact and fiction. 

I am a doctor. An army doctor, to be exact. And I’m good. Very good, at what I do. 

I was invalided home nearly a year ago after being wounded in action in Afghanistan. All official reports will state that I was shot. Single gunshot to the shoulder, fracturing the scapula, tearing through tendons, and obliterating nerve endings.

I very nearly bled to death out on that scorching desert sand. My comrade, Murray, was able to stop the bleeding to save my life at that time. It was later, when the infection began to set in, that I nearly died for the second time. The infection tore through my body without remorse. It was like fire scorching through my insides, ravaging everything in its path. It was as close to death as I’ve ever been, and I’ve been close to death throughout my adult life. I’ve shaken hands with all kinds of devils, but this one was almost my end.

As I said, this is the official version. It’s easy to believe. A military man shot and nearly killed in a volatile environment is straightforward. It makes sense. The truth, of course, is far more complicated.

I am a doctor. An army doctor, to be exact. And I’m good. I’m very good at what I do.

I am also so much more than that.

I am a vampire hunter.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. “There’s no such thing as vampires, those are just stories”, and I agree with you. They are stories. More than that, though, they are warnings. 

Of course, the warnings are completely wrong. I’m not sure where the idea of garlic, no reflections in glass, and can’t be out in the light of day come from. Complete rubbish, that.

Vampires live among us everyday. They sit beside you on the tube, on the bus, at your favorite local diner. They sit beside you and they eat the same food as you. They are the woman you pull at the pub, the man you have drinks with after work. They’re your neighbors, your coworkers, your friends. 

Sometimes they’re your flatmate.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back a bit, shall we? 

I come from a long line of vampire hunters. The Watson’s have been in the business for centuries, actually. We are privy to certain arcane knowledge that the general public is completely happy to pretend doesn’t exist, and we let them maintain their fantasy. It’s easier to believe that vampires, werewolves, witches, and demons don’t exist. If you aren’t staring them in the face every day, that is. The thing is, you usually are. You just don’t see it. 

The biggest boon for these creatures existence is that the average person doesn’t believe they do. Hiding in plain sight really is the most effective way of deceiving those around you. 

Now, it needs to be said that most of these beings are completely safe to be around. They’re not out to hurt people. They want to live their lives just as you and I do. They have passions and dreams and want to live lives of purpose. It’s what makes it so easy for them to live among humans without suspicion. There’s nothing about them that screams “not human!” at first glance. 

But just as there are humans that seek to destroy everything wholesome and good in this world, there are vampires that do the same. It’s because of those individuals that people like my family and I exist. We serve as a sort of police force, I suppose you could call it. Live your life, don’t kill innocents, don’t turn those who don’t want to be turned, and we leave you well enough alone. We’re not out to destroy families and clans that are just making their way through the world. Unfortunately, there’s always a need for us.

I was on a mission in Afghanistan to track down one of the most notorious vampire clans in the Middle East. They feed and kill without thought and with extreme violence. We always aim for peace, first. Make contact, remind them of our presence and that we cannot stand idly by while they destroy the world around them. Sometimes these reminders are enough. Mostly they aren’t.

That’s where this particular story begins.

I was discovered by one of the vampires in the clan to be more than I seemed. After making contact, he wasn’t impressed. 

He attacked me. 

I held my own, and was doing fairly well, until he managed to get under my guard.

He tore into my flesh, ripping muscle from bone with his teeth, destroying my shoulder. Murray discovered me just in time, and was able to dispatch him before he could kill me. I was already infected with vampiric venom, and that nearly killed me the second time. Murray was able to administer the antidote in the nick of time. If he had found me a minute later, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing to you today. I would be long dead, buried in the ground, and my story untold. 

Assuming the venom didn’t cause a transformation, that is. 

In any case, it was this occasion that sent me back home to London a broken man. 

A shoulder torn apart, nerve damage that triggered a tremor in my dominant hand, and a bloody limp from a vampiric infection that nearly killed me. Well, it was partly psychosomatic, and I knew that, but knowing doesn’t make the pain go away. Knowledge doesn’t always equal power. Sometimes knowing something makes it worse, because knowing you should be grateful to be alive and actually being grateful for it are two very different things. I could handle dying out in the field, doing the noble work that keeps the public safe from an enemy they don’t even believe exists. Dying like my father did in the same pursuit. Living, though? That’s harder.

Sometimes the mind can be its own worst enemy. 

After a few months of convalescence, I began to try and take back what pieces of my life I could. I forced myself out of my lonely little bedsit, my self-imposed isolation. I went to the stores, and I walked in the park. I walked with a cane that I knew I didn’t need, but that I so heavily relied upon. 

It was on one of these walks that I ran into an old friend from university.

“John? John Watson!”

I slowed, turning to look back at the voice that called out to me. It belonged to a man sitting on a bench, a friendly and open expression on his round face, and while I knew I recognized him, I admit that I couldn’t remember his name or even where I knew him from. He seemed to recognize that, and with a good nature offered more information.

“Stamford. Mike Stamford. We went to Barts together!” He said with a smile, and the gears shifted and clicked into place in my memory, and I reached out to shake his offered hand.

“Ah yes, Mike, hello.”

“Yes, I know, I got fat,” he responds jovially, and I gave him a small smile.

“Where have you been? Last I heard you were somewhere getting shot at,” he said, looking at me expectantly.

“Yes, well, I got shot,” I reply, and I watched as his face fell at this revelation, but to his credit, he didn’t apologize. Instead, he offered to buy me a coffee, and so he did and we found an empty bench in Regents to sit and catch up. We talked, and drank coffee. I had liked Mike back in university, and it turned out that I still rather liked him. He’s a hard man to not like, actually. He’s friendly and open without being overbearing. We spoke about many things before the conversation turned to my living situation and how I honestly couldn’t afford to live in London on my own.

“Why not look for a flatshare or something?”

I scoffed as I gave him a rather incredulous look. “Who would want me for a flatmate?”

Mike laughed as he gave his head a small shake. “You’re the second person to say that to me today.”

I turned to look at him, arching a brow in curiosity. “Who was the first?”

And that was how I ended up in a lab in Bart's hospital. 

When I walked into the room, taking in the changed space that was still somehow familiar despite years passing and talking to Mike, a man suddenly spoke up asking for Mike’s mobile.

This man, now that I saw him, immediately demanded all of my attention. He was, simply, beautiful. Tall, with alabaster skin, a dark mop of succulent curls atop his head, and sharp, calculating eyes that seemed to shift in color as I watched him. 

Mike didn’t have his mobile, and before I had made a conscious decision to do so, I offered my own mobile to him. I watched as he stood, long legs striding confidently towards me, and as his hand reached out to take my phone, his cold fingers touched my own in the brief exchange. I dropped the phone into his hand as the cold registered like an electric current through my nervous system. My eyes scanned over him quickly as his back was turned to me, and I took in everything I could. 

Contrary to popular belief, or popular fantastical story telling rather, there’s nothing physically obvious that one can point to and say “ah ha, that bloke is a vampire!”, but it must be said that as far as convention goes, this man could be said to fit the bill with his pale skin and seductive nature. Honestly, the man basically oozed with self-confidence and self-assurance. Even the temperature of his skin wasn’t suggestion enough. While yes, a vampire can be cold, so can a human. Vampires fed on blood and were warmed by it, so just saying “oh he’s cold, he must be a vampire” is absolutely ridiculous.

No, what was suggestive of this man was the calculating intensity of his eyes. Not the physical appearance, but the depth behind them. They were the eyes of a man who has seen far more than the average. Eyes that saw and took in more. It wasn’t proof in and of itself, of course. I’m a hunter. I’ve been trained to look for these kinds of things, but even I can miss signs or misinterpret information. It was in the middle of my musings that he suddenly spoke.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Sorry?”

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan. How did you know?”

At this those eyes flashed back up to me, and I knew then that I was correct in my assumption. 

“How do you feel about the violin?” He asked in lieu of answering my question.  
“I’m sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

“Are you—? You told him about me?” I asked, turning to Mike. If we were going to play this game to an audience, than I would play my part. 

“Not a word,” Mike answered, and I noted the smirk on his face. He seemed to be enjoying himself. 

“Then who said anything about flatmates?” I asked.

“I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just out to lunch with an old friend. Clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t a difficult leap.”

“How did you know about Afghanistan?”

“I’ve got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We meet there tomorrow evening, seven o’clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary,” he deflected easily. 

“Is that it?”

“Is that what?”

“We’ve only just met and we’re going to go look at a flat.”

“Problem?”

“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your name.” Well, most of that was true. I knew one thing, or suspected it anyway. I wasn’t about to say anything in front of Mike, though. 

“I know you’re an army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you, but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him—possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, though that’s not entirely correct, I’m afraid. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” 

Yes, I suppose it was a bit it be going on with. Never mind the fact that I was becoming more convinced by the moment that he was indeed what I thought he was. The question of course was did he know who I was? 

I watched as he stepped out of the door, then stepped back in just before it closed. 

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon.” He winked and then left. Winked. A saucy wink. 

“Yeah. He’s always like that,” Mike said with that same smirk at the sound of the door clicking closed. 

*

So it was that the following day I found myself standing outside 221 Baker Street, wondering how on earth I came to be there at all. I turned just in time to see Sherlock step out of a taxi and took his hand when he held it out to shake. Today, his hand was warm, and his eyes a darker blue than the day before. If he was indeed what I thought he was, this meant he must have fed in the last few hours. 

I followed him up to the door and was surprised when an elderly woman opened the door and embraced the man with a large smile before Sherlock introduced her to me and we followed her into the building and up to 221B. 

The room was filled with all kinds of things. Boxes, books, a microscope and other scientific paraphernalia, papers everywhere and cups of half drunk tea. The wallpaper was faded and peeling in some places, a faded Persian rug stretched across the floor, and two very different armchairs were set across from each other near the fireplace. It was chaotic and quiet and loud and I found myself instantly attached to the idea of this being home. 

It appeared that Sherlock did as well, as the clutter all over apparently was his. He started sorting through things haphazardly as I walked around, taking the place in. 

“I think this will do nicely.”

“Yes, I quite agree.” 

“There’s a second bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two,” Mrs. Hudson, the landlady that opened the door earlier, informed me.

I considered pointing out that we would obviously need two, but then decided it wasn’t worth it. There was a second and that’s what mattered. I nodded and gave a smile instead.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

She smiled and nodded and then tottered off into the kitchen, fussing over the mess that Sherlock had made.I was left standing in the middle of the room, looking around and taking in my new home, when I became aware of Sherlock again.

He came up behind me, leaning into my personal space without care or regard. I could feel the ends of his unruly curls ghosting across the exposed skin of my neck, his nose millimeters above that skin breathing in deeply. To my credit, I didn’t startle. I shifted my balance, carefully shifting the cane in my hand to accommodate the change.

“Watson. John Watson.” I felt his warm breath on my skin as he spoke, his deep voice and close vicinity sending a shock through my system. 

I turned my head to look at him as he took a step back. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” I said in reply. I felt his eyes scanning over me, and I rather felt like an ant under a magnifying glass. His gaze was calculating and I felt laid bare in a way I’ve never felt before. It was both disconcerting and intriguing. He was opening his mouth, to speak again, I think, when there was a clatter of footsteps upon the stairs and the door of the flat was thrown open. We both turned to look at the silver haired man now standing in the doorway. I glanced at Sherlock, taking in the sudden look of excitement on his face as he took in the appearance of the man. He must know the man, then. 

“Where?” Sherlock asked. 

“Lauriston Gardens. Will you come?” The silver haired man asked.

Sherlock nodded, shooing the man away, who had just glanced at me without any trace of interest on his face. I watched as he left, then turned to take in my new flatmate again. He turned and leapt into the air with a shout of what could only be described as childlike joy. What on earth was going on?

“John, make yourself at home. Have a cup of tea. I’ll be out late,” he said, and in a twirl of frenetic energy he slung his great coat on, knotted his scarf on, and was out the door. 

Mrs. Hudson came out of the kitchen. 

“Where’s he off to?”

“I have absolutely no idea. Is he always like that?”

“Oh yes, he’s always dashing about. All hours of the day and the night, too. I swear the man hardly eats or sleeps.”

“I see”, I replied, and indeed, I did see. It was becoming more evident with every passing moment that Sherlock was a vampire. 

“John, you’re a doctor,” the man we were just speaking of suddenly said from the door to the flat, apparently having returned. “In fact you’re an army...doctor,” he said, hesitating on doctor as if he wanted to say something else instead. 

“Yes.” 

“Any good?”

“Very good.”

“Seen a lot of injuries, then? Violent deaths. Been in a bit of trouble yourself, I’d wager.”

“Yes,” I replied. Of course I had. Where was he going with this?

“Want to see some more?”

“God, yes,” I replied without a thought. He spun on his heel and I took off after him as quickly as I could with that blasted cane, and called a farewell to Mrs. Hudson.


	2. Chapter 2

Once out of the flat I followed him into a cab, sitting down on the seat beside him and adjusting my cane self-consciously. I hated the bloody thing. 

I could feel the man's eyes on me, and shifted in my seat slightly, trying to stop the fidgeting I knew I was doing. My mind kept circling through everything that happened in the last two days. I was still trying to decide what train of thought to actually focus on when Sherlock spoke.

“Ok, you have questions.”

“Just a couple, yeah. How did you know all those things about me?”

“I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut and stance suggest military. You’re tan, but only on your face and hands, so you weren’t out sunbathing on holiday. You walk with a limp, but seem to forget about it when you stand. That suggests the wound is at least partially psychosomatic,” he hesitated here, as if he wanted to say more, but then decided against it before continuing. “This all points to a military service and career. Wounded recently, looking for cheap accommodations. This brings us to your brother. You know how I came to this one,” he said, giving me an expectant look.

“The inscription on the phone,” I supplied, seeing where he was going with this. 

“Yes. A newer phone, a nice one, with an inscription ‘Harry Watson’ that has been tossed into a pocket with keys and change where it’s been scratched up. You aren’t attached to this phone, and it’s clearly a gift. Could be from a father, but it’s a younger man’s gadget. ‘Love Clara’, now, who’s Clara? xxx suggests a romantic attachment, cost of the phone suggest wife, not girlfriend. This model is only 6 months old. Six months and giving it away? If she left him he might have kept it, people do, sentiment, but he gave it to you meaning he left her, he wanted rid of it, but wanted you to stay in touch.”

I blinked at him, both impressed and still struggling to keep up with the man’s quick speech and flowing deductions. 

“Ok,” I drawled slowly. “What made you think about the drinking?” 

“Shot in the dark, but a good one,” he answered, a smug look on his face. “Scratches all along the charging port. When he goes to plug it in at night his hands shake. Never see a sober man’s phone with those, never see a drunks without them.”

I sat back in my seat, thinking about all that he just revealed about myself. It was remarkable.

“That was amazing,” I said.

He turned to look at me quickly, a look of surprise flashing across his features before settling into indifference again. 

“You really think so?”

“Yes of course. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“Piss off,” he deadpanned and I couldn’t help the quiet laugh that bubbled up. He answered it with an almost shy smile before turning away to look outside the window. 

“So where are we going?”

“Crime scene.”

“Crime scene? So what, was that an officer who came up earlier?”

“A Detective Inspector, yes.”

“So you work for the police?”

“God, no. I’m a consulting detective.”

“There’s no such thing as a consulting detective,” I argued.

“I invented the job,” he replied. 

“Of course you did,” I laughed, unable to stop myself. This man was something else, and I found myself drawn to his charismatic personality. 

It was at this point that we pulled up in front of a row of buildings, the cab coming to a stop and I stepped out while Sherlock paid. He met me out on the concrete a moment later, and I followed him towards the police tape that surrounded the area. He stepped under and lifted the tape for me to follow, and at the moment a woman officer held out a hand to halt us. 

“What are you doing here?” She sneered at Sherlock, but he didn’t even bother looking at her. 

“I was invited. Come, John,” he looked to me. 

I hesitated, looking between the two of them and honestly unsure what to do. 

The woman rolled her eyes, then jerked her head. “Go on.”

I followed behind Sherlock as I heard the woman speak into her handset. “Freak’s coming up and he has a stray.”

I shook my head a bit, but stayed silent. I had absolutely no idea why I was here, so figured quiet was best. 

I followed him up the stairs, going slower than I would like due to my cane, and when Sherlock got to the top of the landing where the crime appeared to have happened he stopped to talk to the same silver haired man that came to the flat earlier. When I stepped up, the man looked at me.

“He can’t go in there,” he said, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“He’s a doctor. He’s going to act as my assistant.”

This was news to me, but I kept my face impassive. 

“Anderson’s in there.”

“Anderson won’t work with me. John’s coming in.”

The man have a sigh, then shook his head and waved them in. It seemed that a lot of people let Sherlock do whatever it was he wanted. John wasn’t sure what that said about the man, or himself as he seemed just as willing to be swept along into whatever plans the man had, but he accepted the forensic jumpsuit and saw gloves being held out to him and put them on quickly. 

Properly suited, though I noticed Sherlock only put on gloves himself, I followed the two men into the room. 

A blonde woman lay face down on the floor, dressed entirely in various shades of pink, clearly dead. I watched as Sherlock approached the body as he pulled out a small magnifying glass and crouched down, examining her silently. His eyes swept over her quickly, sharp gaze taking in all the minute details that his mind seemed to pick up on that others missed.

I watched as he crouched down beside the woman, his great coat spread out around him, then I began to take on more of the scene.

“What do you think, Dr. Watson?” 

The question startled me, and I turned to look at him again. His chameleon eyes were locked on me and I made my way over to him, shifting my cane around to crouch down beside him. 

“What exactly am I doing here?” I asked him. 

“Investigating a crime scene. What do you think?”

“I think she’s dead.”

“Sound analysis, but I was hoping you would go deeper,” his smooth baritone replied. His eyes were still locked on me, and I sighed, then settled down to actually look at the victim. 

“Female, late 40s,” I say, bending forward to look at the woman’s face, searching for obvious signs of death. “Dead between 6-8 hours. She could have asphyxiated, judging by the dried…” and I paused, looking closer at what appeared to be some kind of dried powder on the woman’s lips. I took the woman’s hand in my own, feeling for rigormortis again, but something was off. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what, though. I glanced up at the man crouched beside me, and his eyes were on me, almost challenging, as if he was waiting to see if I would catch on to what he already knew. 

I glanced back down, trying to figure out what I was obviously missing, when the dead woman’s hand, which I still held in my own, suddenly clawed, her eyes flying open and her mouth stretching out to release a silent scream of what was clearly agony before her entire body seemed to cave in on itself. I dropped her hand as her body almost seemed to melt before my eyes, and I jumped back, aware that Sherlock did the same across from me. We both stepped back, staring down at the spreading pool of liquidating human remains. 

The door opened, and the DI took four steps into the room before he stopped, his mind seeming to catch up to what his eyes were seeing. I have no idea what possible conclusions he could be coming to, because I myself was still processing, and I had been there to watch the entire process.

The DI turned his eyes on Sherlock. “What happened?” he asked, and I was impressed with his seemingly calm acceptance of whatever just took place.

“The same as with the others. You need to keep this under wraps, and quickly. Don’t let anyone else in, and for God’s sake don’t let Anderson anywhere near any of the evidence you’ve already collected.”

“Yeah, alright. I’m on it,” the man said, pulling out his phone and stepping back out into the hallway as he quickly typed a message out. My gaze went back to Sherlock as he started muttering under his breath. He was off in his own head, and if I had the power to read his mind I think I would have become dizzy with the thoughts that were clearly firing off in all directions there. He looked up suddenly, shouted out “pink!”, and then ran from the room. 

I took off after him, but he took the stairs far faster than I ever could with my leg and cane. I stood at the landing looking at his retreating back in a mix of exasperation and disbelief. The man was a force of nature, a tornado whipping up and throwing deductions, thoughts, theories, in every direction. He tore through a space without a care or concern for anyone there, his great coat billowing out behind him in a dramatic twirl worthy of any movie about vampires I’d ever seen. Ironic, that, if my suspicions were correct.

I started down the stairs and out of the building after ridding myself of the gloves and paper suit. When I stepped out I glanced around for Sherlock, though I knew he was long gone by this point. I spotted the woman officer from earlier and made my way over to her. “Do you know where I can get a cab?” I tapped my leg with my cane in explanation. 

“Main road is that way,” she said with a tilt of her head, but she walked over and lifted the police tape for me to step under. “Just a word of caution. I have no idea who you are or why you’re following him, but you should stay away from him.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because he’s a psychopath. He gets off on this. One day we’re going to be around a body, and he’s going to be the one who put it there,” she spoke with such conviction that I knew she was completely convinced that it was only a matter of time before Sherlock murdered someone. I gave a nod, then turned and walked away towards the main road. 

My mind was reeling with everything I saw at the crime scene. This wasn’t a mortal murder. It was vampiric. That was true beyond a doubt in my mind. The pill the woman appeared to have taken was some form of concentrated vampire venom. It had destroyed the living tissue in her body and obliterated her organs. I’d never seen anything like it. Didn’t even know something like that was possible. A live injection of the venom didn’t do nearly the same amount of damage. It weakened your muscles to make it easier for the vampire to feed without having to deal with the victims struggling. Eventually the venom would destroy the living tissue, yes, but not that quickly or completely. Anti-venom would be essentially useless against whatever this was, and that was a terrifying thought. 

Of course, I didn’t reveal this to Sherlock when at the crime scene. He made his deductions and came to his own conclusions. Whether or not they were the same as what I knew was irrelevant at the moment. 

I was walking down the road, lost in thought, when a black car pulled up alongside me and seemed to follow me. I kept my pace, eyes shifting towards the car when the back window rolled down and I heard a woman’s voice call out. 

“Doctor Watson.”

I stopped, turning towards the car as it came to a stop. The back door opened and the woman who spoke earlier stepped out. She was attractive, with thick dark hair and a BlackBerry in her hand that she didn’t look up from as she exited and spoke to me again. 

“Please get in the car, Doctor Watson.”

“Why would I do that?” I asked. 

At this she looked up at me, and I saw the hint of a red shimmer in her eyes. Vampire. My brain jumped into overdrive quickly, analyzing the situation I now seemed to find myself in. Unfortunately we both knew I wouldn’t be able to outrun her, not in my current state, but she chose that moment to look back down at her Blackberry. 

“Doctor John Hamish Watson, son of Abigail and James Watson, Captain, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” she recited, eyes reading over her phone. She looked up at me again. “Invalided home from Afghanistan 8 months ago.” 

I watched her, eyes wary. She stepped back from the door, and sighing, I walked to the door and got in. I sat down, and my eyes immediately went to the man in the car. Tall, thin, with ginger hair and an umbrella held loosely in his right hand. 

“Doctor Watson, thank you for joining me,” he spoke quietly. 

“I didn’t really have much of a choice,” I replied. 

He offered me a cold, insincere smile. “No, I suppose you didn’t.”

I stared at him, wondering where this would be going next. I didn’t have to wait long before he spoke again.

“What is your association with Sherlock Holmes?”

“Sorry?”

“Please don’t play dumb with me, Doctor. Neither of us have the time for it.” 

“I’m not sure that my association with him is any of your concern,” I answered stiffly, reigning in my rising anger as much as I could. 

“It is, actually. I could make it worth yours. I’m willing to pay a handsome sum if you-,” he started, but I cut him off. 

“And why would you do that?”

“I worry about him. Constantly.”

“I’m not interested.”

“I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

“Still not interested.”

The tall man leans lightly on his umbrella and looks down at the phone in his hand, eyes scanning over something before he looks back up to me. 

“‘Trust issues’, your therapist says. Have you decided to trust Sherlock of all people?”

“How...how did you know that? Who are you?” I ask. If I’m going to be honest, at this point I was starting to get a little frustrated. This man was clearly a vampire, but how did he know so much about me? If he knew about my therapist, did he know who I really was? 

I let my eyes fall, scanning the building for a quick exit if needed. I don’t know who this man, this vampire, is, but he is clearly dangerous. Whether or not he’s dangerous to me, or to Sherlock, or both of us, is unclear. 

At that moment, my phone pinged with an incoming text. I glanced down. 

If convenient, come to Baker Street. -SH

I put it back in my pocket without answering. 

“Doctor Watson, it doesn’t really matter who I am. What matters right now is who you are, who Sherlock is, and what your plans are.”

Another incoming text ping.

If inconvenient, come anyway. -SH

I felt my lips quirk up in an unconscious smirk. I looked back up at the man with his non-threatening umbrella and the faint shine of red in his irises.

“I think we’re done here,” I say, more forcefully than is probably advisable given the situation, but I’ve never been the best at managing my anger or risk analysis. 

“Yes, I believe we are,” the man replied, surprising me. I watched as he straightened up, tucking his umbrella handle over his arm, and then turned and walked away. “My driver will take you home.”

I stood there a moment longer before turning and walking back to the woman who was still standing outside the now open backseat door of the black car. I got in, pulling my cane and leg in behind me, and settled into the seat as she closed the door, then walked to the other side and got in beside me. I have to admit I was impressed by her ability to move so smoothly while not once removing her eyes from the device in her hands. 

“I’m to take you home,” she said, not looking up.

“Take me to 221 Baker Street,” I say instead, and other than a tiny upward twitch of an eyebrow she didn’t respond. As we drove, I went over everything I had seen and experienced over the last 48 hours. When we pulled up to 221 Baker Street, I stepped out of the car and watched as it drove off. 

I stood in front of the black door for a moment, gathering my thoughts, and then pressed the buzzer. Mrs. Hudson opened the door a moment later, a pleasant smile on her face, and then ushered me up the stairs to 221B. I let myself in without knocking, my eyes drifting over the organized chaos of the room, until finally landing on Sherlock. He was sprawled out along the couch against the wall, his long legs stretched out and his hands clasped together under his chin. 

I watched him for a moment, waiting for him to say or do something, but he simply continued to lie there. I wasn’t sure if he even realized I had entered the room. I cleared my throat, then walked over to one of the chairs in the room and sat down.

“What do you know of vampires, Doctor Watson?”

He spoke so softly, so suddenly, that I wasn’t sure if it was merely my imagination.

“Sorry?” I asked.

He was so very still lying there that I almost convinced myself he was asleep. Then there was a great flurry of moment, legs and arms and body coiled up and then leapt from the couch, his lean form stalking towards me. 

“Vampires, Doctor. What do you know of them?” Those kaleidoscope eyes were trained on me, cataloging and reading every expression that crossed my face.

“Vampires? Like garlic, stakes in the heart, glitter in the sunlight, and drink your blood vampires?” I ask, trying for incredulous disbelief that I’m being asked about such a subject, but we both know how ridiculous I sound. 

“Really, John? Glitter in the sunlight?” 

“Yeah, I’m not sure where that came from.”

“Honestly John, that was embarrassing for both of us.”

“Yes, I haven’t actually seen you shine.”

His eyes, still trained on me, narrowed slightly, and without consciously deciding it I started to laugh. He watched me for a moment before he let out his own quiet chuckle, and then we were both giggling uncontrollably. He sat down in the chair across from me, leaning back into the soft leather and crossing his long legs as we settled down to quiet contemplation. 

“You know what I am,” he says, and it’s not a question, but not quite a statement of fact, either. 

“I wasn’t completely sure until just now,” I reply, and he nods thoughtfully. 

“Watson,” he says quietly. “I knew a Hamish Watson, long ago.”

“I had a great great grandfather by that name,” I supply.

He sat quietly, still, his hands folded in his lap as he looked at me. I wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking for, but he suddenly gave a small smile.

“Yes, I can see the resemblance. I don’t know how I missed it before, but there you are. Humans live such short lives. They start to all blend together over the years.” He sounded almost sad at that, his eyes seeming to go into some internal place, and I remained quiet. What could I possibly say to that, anyway? 

We both sat quietly for several minutes. Him, lost in thoughts that I couldn’t even begin to imagine, and me, trying to imagine those thoughts of his anyway. His gaze snapped back to me.

“You were invalided home from Afghanistan.”

“Yes.”

“Official records claim you were shot in the shoulder, wounded in action, but you weren’t.”

“Do I even want to know how you know that?”

He ignored my question, which didn’t surprise me. “You were attacked by a vampire.”

“Yes, I was.” There was no point in lying. He could read the truth on me, and we both knew it. 

“Watson,” he said again, and I nod. “Watson is a common name. A Watson that was in Afghanistan, where there are known vampire clans who are constantly breaking Covenant laws, who is attacked and then sent home...you are a vampire hunter. A member of the Covenant. A Watson of the Covenant, in fact. A founding family descendant.”

Another nod, for what else could I do?  
“Completely correct,” I tell him. “Incredible.” And it was. To watch his mind work is fascinating and humbling. 

He blinked, momentarily taken aback.

“Do you realize you say that out loud?”

“Yes. What you do is incredible, and I don’t mind saying it.”

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Opened, then closed it again. I smiled, amused as his inability to respond to the compliment. Quiet descended over us again before he spoke. 

“You aren’t like other people, John. I’ve known many people throughout my life, but you…”he trailed off, head tilting to the side as he seemed to consider just what he thought I was. “You’re still infected.”

I blinked, confused by the sudden change of topic. “What?”

“Your shoulder. Your leg. There’s still active venom in you. It’s why your leg still pains you. The tissue is still being destroyed.”

“That’s not possible. My partner injected me with anti-venom,” I began, but he cut me off.

“Yes, but it wasn’t enough. It’s still there. I can smell it. It’s in your bloodstream as we speak, working its way through your body, consuming what it can. It’s slowed, incredibly slowed, but still there.”

I sat back in my chair, taking in all he said. It didn’t make sense, the anti-venom should have removed and destroyed all traces of the venom. It had been in use for nearly a century, and it was always successful. Why would it not be working for me? It had worked for me in the past without issue. He must be mistaken, but then, why was I still limping? Why were there constant pains in my leg, where there shouldn’t have been any? My shoulder made sense. No anti-venom could remove bite marks and torn muscles, so there will always be some pain in that area. Usually when the weather acted up, or I overextended my shoulder. The leg, though. 

“How is that possible?”

“I don’t know. I don’t like not knowing,” he hissed, face scrunching up in annoyance. His fingers drummed against the arms of his chair. “Someone might have tampered with the solution. In any case, there’s a way to remove it now.”

I raised a brow in question, and watched as he raised gracefully from his chair and walk into the kitchen. I listened as he rummaged around the cabinets and detritus atop the kitchen table. He returned a moment later holding a cotton ball, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a syringe filled with a clear liquid.

“Anti-venom, Doctor,” he said, passing the supplies to me. “It should do the trick.”

“Why do you have anti-venom in your kitchen, Sherlock?”

“Why wouldn’t I? I’ve been working on this for years. I always have it around.”

“Wait. Working on it, how? What do you mean?”

“I mean that I developed it.”

I stared at him, then looked over at the kitchen again, the bookcases, with their mountains of scientific information, equipment, then turned back to him. 

“Anti-venom was developed over a century ago by,” I began, but he cut me off. Again.

“By William Scott, yes I know. William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he finished, giving a sarcastic sweeping bow and tilt of an imaginary hat. “At your service.”

“I suppose you did know a Hamish Watson, then, didn’t you?” I can’t help the smile I feel stretching across my face. I also can’t help the flush of warmth that spreads through me as Sherlock responded with his own smile.

“Yes, I did. Now.” He clapped his hands, features settling back into a business-like expression. “Use that. It should take effect rather quickly and we can get on with things. Now that we’re on the same page, we can discuss what exactly is going on with these vampire attacks.”

“Cheers.” I watched him as he started to pace around the room, then turned to look down at the syringe in my hand. For some inexplicable reason I trusted this man. He said it was anti-venom, that there was still venom coursing through me, that this would get rid of it, and I believed him. I prepped my skin, cleaning it with the alcohol, and then pierced the thin needle through the blue-tinged vein in the crook of my elbow. Pressing down on the plunger, I felt the familiar sting and burn of the solution as it entered my blood. 

“So you think they are vampire attacks?”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously? I’ve never seen anything like that before from a vampire attack.”

“To be fair, I don’t think it was actually a vampire that did the attacking.”

“You said it was like the others. What others?”

“You’ve seen the papers, John. The serial suicides.”

“They’ve all been like that?”

“Yes.”

“That DI, Lestrade. What does he know about all this?”

“He knows enough. Not important.”

I strongly disagreed with his assessment on the importance of that, but it wasn’t worth arguing at the moment.

“How’s your leg?”

This man was going to give me mental whiplash with the way he changed topics so quickly. I stretched out my leg, surprised that the muscle already felt more relaxed than it had in months. “Better, actually. It would appear you were correct.”

He smirked, then took off towards the door and pulled his coat down from the rack. “Come along, John. We have work to do and you’re no doubt hungry.”

I stood up, stretching and marveling at the absence of pain in my leg yet again. “Extraordinary,” I muttered under my breath, then grabbed my cane and followed after Sherlock.


End file.
